


Taking It Easy

by Pyrasaur



Category: Gyakuten Saiban | Ace Attorney
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Romance, Smut, Trust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-05-11
Updated: 2008-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-14 21:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/153726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyrasaur/pseuds/Pyrasaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Franziska was relaxing, he realized. And he realized it again -- slower, to let the words soak in, because it seemed like yesterday that every furnishing Phoenix owned offended her sensibilities.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taking It Easy

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a kinkmeme prompt: _SO. I'd love for a couple to have a cute domestic evening together. You know, make dinner, watch movies, taking each other's presence completely for granted and realizing in bed how much they love each other. Or something. :X (Bonus points for slow, sensual, sexy-times.) I like: Phoenix/Miles, Phoenix/Franzi, Klavier/Apollo, Apollo/Trucy, Miles/Franzi... I'll even take Diego/Mia if it makes this fic get written._

     The housecoat, Phoenix decided, was odd. Not in itself -- black, simple, barely glossy enough to catch cool glow from his television -- but looking at Franziska was.  
     "Foolish fools," she muttered toward the car-chase scene, and returned her attention to the plate on her chest.  
     Well, it wasn't called the idiot box for nothing. He reached over Franziska's knees for the remote control; the housecoat slithered smooth against his forearm.  
     "There are never any good TV movies on Tuesday," he said, "They save the good ones for Friday."  
     Which had never made sense to Phoenix: who stayed in on Fridays to watch movies? Except him.

     Franziska rearranged her feet in his lap, and melted petulantly into the couch cushions. Maybe the housecoat was odd because _relaxation need not be a sloppy affair, Phoenix Wright._ Relaxation? He remembered more along the lines of starched collars, and wary glances, and geometric stacks in her suitcase -- the flaking paint inside his spare closet may be contagious.

     His thumb hesitated on the remote buttons.  
     "Are you watching this?"  
     She didn't look up -- too busy tearing the second toast slice into perfectly bite-sized chunks.  
     "No."

     That made neither of them. A gloomy cop drama flashed by; gaudy commercials; a documentary full of wide-eyed antelope. He hit mute and the narrator was clipped to silence -- just flickering quiet. Phoenix propped an elbow on the couch arm, and his head on a fist, and Franziska diligently wiped her plate with a toast bit.

     "Why do you do that?"  
     She frowned at her work. "I don't like _crumbs_."

     Crumbs, of course, were foolish. Phoenix's attention flowed down the housecoat, bunched loose around her elbows and flowing satin-liquid over her hips, around her knees. She was relaxing, he realized. And he realized it again -- slower, to let the words soak in, because it seemed like yesterday that every furnishing he owned offended her sensibilities.  
     Franziska watched silent antelope. The last crumb-laden toast morsel popped into her mouth, in a motion she must have perfected. She watched a moment longer. And her eyes were suddenly on him, less falcon than usual, brows drawing to a leisurely _just what do you think you're doing, Phoenix Wright?_  
     He didn't bother shrugging.  
     "It's cute, that's all."  
     "Cute ...?" She smiled anyway, like biting the inside of her cheek couldn't stop it. "Toast isn't generally defined as cute."  
     "I wasn't talking about the toast."

     That was why he bothered: the times she flushed and looked away, shy forest creatures behind all that pride. Phoenix couldn't have stopped the grin if he wanted to. Fawns and grass flickered in the dark; the quiet spread, and gradually, Phoenix noticed the ankle his hand draped across.  
     Yes, Franziska's feet lay in his lap, slack with rest. He ran a palm up downy-soft skin -- bottles of fruity soap stuff taking over the shower sprang to mind. Maybe Phoenix didn't give her enough credit.  
     "Do you mean it?"  
     He looked to her; this stare was more familiar, sharper.  
     "Um," Phoenix tried, "Do I mean what?"  
     "Any of this foolishness."

     Precognition chilled his back. It was anyone's guess where this could end -- either commanding hands on him, or black gloom. Or worse things he didn't think about. Phoenix swallowed; he looked away and back to her.  
     "I'd ... like to mean it. If you'll let me."

     Flush never lasted on Franziska. She considered, coolly, and it didn't matter whether her hair fanned on his shabby old throw pillows or not; that was the look Phoenix remembered from court.  
     It didn't matter -- he wasn't about to change his mind. Offering a last edge of a smile, Phoenix turned back to the television, to some commercial full of white-toothed actors.

     "Come here."

     It took a moment to resolve as words, and snap cleanly into place in Phoenix's mind. And by then, Franziska finished setting her perfectly crumbless plate on the carpet.  
     His mouth opened. "Uhh ..."  
     "You heard me, Phoenix Wright," she murmured.

     They watched each other; Franziska laid silk-black and ice-pale. Fortune, Phoenix thought as he moved like over blown glass, favoured the brave.

     And the couch springs croaked; Franziska was lush under him, between his elbows, and she smirked, feline.  
     "Well?"  
     It was worlds more comfortable than a sudden wall at his back, if that was what she meant. Softer, and calmer, and wreathed with nighttime and _close_ enough to see the television light shine on her fair eyelashes -- Phoenix grinned, full of a sudden, eager swell around his heart.  
     "This is nice," he said, and he bent, kissing her, meaning it.

     Franziska's usual challenge -- a nip to his lower lip, he ignored it -- and then it truly began, a slow, wet dance. Oh, he had forgotten how much he liked slow; every gliding motion; the half-breath before he pressed onward; the dubious flick of her tongue he took as permission, and the heady deepening, and everything turning to touch.  
     It broke softly. She hummed one far-off, considering note and Phoenix sought her again, blind and stroking her lip between his.  
     He caught his breath, and noticed, eventually, that Franziska watched him.  
     "You do mean it," she wondered, hardly louder than breathing, "Don't you?"  
     He'd mind the suspicion later -- not now, not during this chance. And Phoenix held her gaze for a moment, smiling for her before dipping to the curve of her throat. A flinch shook Franziska and she yielded: the nothing-taste of her skin, one sigh-heavy breath while she lifted her chin, glacially slow.  
     "All right, I do," Phoenix said against her skin. He wormed hands under Franziska's curve of back, gathered her closer and breathed in the length of her neck. "Am I allowed to use those words yet?"

     He could imagine the way her nose wrinkled -- at odds with her deep wisp of a sigh.  
     " _Boyfriend_ and _girlfriend_ are an antiquated way of defining a relationship. And they sound _foolish_."  
     In some deeply masochistic corner of his soul, Phoenix tried pet names on her. His grin returned, as lips and teeth against her curves of collarbone.  
     "I'd settle," he murmured, "For you using just my first name."

     Thoughtful quiet. She drew black satin out of his way, and laced that hand into his hair, delight skittering away down his back.  
     "This is hardly the time for debate," she decided.

     Back talk would earn him a fortnight on the rack, naturally. He lingered in the hollow of her throat; Franziska's nails stirred clouds of sparks on his scalp. She lay close and soft and warm and willing.  
     "Just tell me if you like something, okay?"

     Funny how it had been ... somewhere between three and eight weeks, and he wanted to say that each time. Franziska bit her tongue, watching him, eyes hooded. Back to the shy glimpses through leaves.

     Slow was wonderful; faint sweat-salt and hair-scent, breath teasing Phoenix's ear, her back smooth as marble and her breasts plush between them. None of Franziska's leverage here. Just her hips to meander touch over, cotton layers to tug at and pry tank top's edge from and lift and here was more skin luminous against the dark, and Franziska's shuddering inhale as he laid lips to her breastbone.  
     Maybe if she let him do this more, he'd have less mapping to do -- not that he minded, Phoenix thought, stroking her breasts, watching the arc in his memory. Skin's scent, and body heat, and ribs blending through to stomach fluttering under his touch, a nipple eager against his cheek--  
     She gasped -- a shot clean through him.  
     Phoenix looked up. "Hmm?"

     They watched each other -- well, Franziska searched _through_ him, wondering distance on her face, the last trace of a stubborn frown. And then her eyes darted away, down. One smaller hand gathered his, pressing his fingers into curled shape.  
     "T-That ..."  
     And like a question, she guided his knuckles over her soft arch of stomach.  
     This was familiar: a memory-echo from seconds ago. Phoenix smiled, and drew circles on her skin. How good of her to show him, to be willing to try and to hold his gaze with lash-lowered determination.

     Down-soft lines drawn with his knuckles, and the tremble of her abdominal muscles, and Phoenix replaced his hand with his mouth and got another gasp like small music.  
     "Like that," he asked, against the breathing-heave of her body, through the hot demand of his own.  
     Considering touch at the nape of his neck.  
     "Like that," Franziska murmured. Touch on his neck became a begging pull closer.

     Phoenix remembered, at times like this, that he was the first. Maybe not _first_ first -- he couldn't bring himself to ask -- but to brave the woods, and see her smile, and _you have your head in the foolishly romantic clouds, Phoenix Wright_. He spead kisses over her skin, breathed in her scent, ran knuckles around her navel. If slow worked for them both, he'd do it like that. She could have whatever she wanted.

     Another squeak-grumble of couch springs, as Phoenix squirmed backward, as he opened the housecoat fully and suddenly saw the gift he had. Franziska was allowing him. _Really_ allowing him, with one knee raised and one hung off the couch's edge, and with the unhurried sight of her plain panties.  
     "You're beautiful," he said, and met her stare, smiling so hard his heart hurt, "I don't tell you that enough."

     A considering pause -- maybe she debated getting up for the whip, after a line like that -- and she gave a bemused smile back, eyes darting without leaving him. Phoenix was over her, suddenly, because he _had_ to be and he needed to kiss her again to show her, he needed the contact of full body length.  
     "I mean it." His voice hitched low; he stroked hair from her eyes.  
     "I'm sure you do." Franziska frowned with thought, and leaned up to meet his mouth again. "Go ahead."

     How delicious she felt, angling her hips for friction, roiling slow under him. If he just wriggled out of his track pants ... then he might never get this chance again. Phoenix sympathized with his howling body as he pulled up, and shifted backward once more.

     Franziska had gorgeous thighs -- they usually peeked out of prim skirts or braced defiant while she smote fools, or hitched on Phoenix's hips while she growled by his ear. Now they lay smooth under his palms, spread over black satin in the flickering light. This was worth the effort, and the patience. Tug, tug and the panties came off, slid over every inch of her pale hips and thighs and calves, off her helpfully pointed toes; Phoenix laid them, hopefully neatly, on the sofa arm. He didn't care if he ever saw them again -- but _she_ would.

     And he had more to explore now -- the length of inner thigh to lay kisses down, heel settling over his shoulder, the salt of her skin and the deep, eager scent of her body. And that glimpse of her eyes, hooded and dark with interest: he might not _survive_ if he watched her back.  
     He wasn't exactly an expert but how hard could it be? Search around and -- like anything, like life -- see what worked. Franziska murmured at the first kiss-touch of his tongue. The tang faded and the musk endured, as he pressed his nose to curly hair and his mouth to slick heat. Quiver ran through her thigh and Phoenix followed it, traced up supple skin and over his own shoulder. Keep a clockwork rhythm because she liked that, stroke and press and whatever made her breathing catch like that, do it again. The sound closed around him and each shift of Franziska's body fascinated, the pulse around his tongue and forward cant of her hips and every flinch under his roaming fingers.  
     Speaking of which, there was the soft circle of her navel again, the rise of a quick breath under his knuckles and a kitten-weak sound in her throat. How hadn't he found this spot before? Other than Franziska's tendancy to throw him down and dominate him senseless -- that didn't count.

     Phoenix smiled. And he rose, he pressed to her belly like he was born to kiss her there and oh, there was throat in Franziska's gasp, strength in the arms around his neck. One hand spread on her damp arch of lower back, the other eased fingers in because he had proven himself this way.  
     "Get on with it," she said, high and thin, dragging a breath through open mouth and raking fire down his scalp, "J-Just--"  
     No -- this was perfect. This could be like the time against the kitchen counter, but better, softer. _Slower_.

     A curl of his fingers, a careful massage: he'd know the angle when he found it. Phoenix remembered her nails digging in and his own bolt of realization, the map for times like this.  
     "Just relax," he murmured.  
     He completed an open-mouthed kiss, and shot a look up at her. He ached harder and he caught a glimpse of Franziska's liquid gaze -- nowhere she could hide now.  
     "If you don't--" she hissed, " _Ahh!_ "

     There it was. One long, hard press sent a bolt through her, made her writhe and press claws to his scalp. Another press, and another, wet and serene and she bucked.  
     " _Faster_ ," and Franziska shuddered and growled, "Do it, just-- I-I ... _Please_."  
     It lanced Phoenix, it stirred fire -- when did she ever say that? How lucky was he, speeding his hand so Franziska arched grateful, his lips on her offered underbelly? His thoughts fogged and senses took over: the taste of her skin; flexing hips and biting nails; _need_ to hear her breathing catch high, and she spasmed and he clutched her right back. Worth it, and Phoenix thought it again -- beautiful.

     Gold-precious, the other side of the peak, this quiet afterward. Her leg slid limp off his shoulder; couch springs muttered as Phoenix shifted on his knees, crept higher to say against her breastbone:  
     "You should let me do that more."

     One considering instant, before she seized his shoulders -- backward momentum and the couch arm at his back and she was on him, delicious weight and devouring stare. Loose-silky housecoat draped his sides but there was nothing casual here. Careful with that damp hand, Franziska hated mess with a single-minded loathing--  
     "Phoenix."  
     "Yes?"

     He blinked. Realizing was glorious enough to hurt.

     "... _Oh_."

     Franziska smiled, haltingly -- maybe his name didn't taste how she expected.  
     "If ... you must have a term for us ..."  
     --And she paused to curl grasp around his wrist and suck his fingers clean, oh wow he'd never get that out of his mind--  
     "I've always preferred _lovers_."  
     "Lovers," he breathed, just to feel the word.  
     She hummed agreement. And deliberate, glacial-slow, she rolled her hips to stroke him -- always more turnabout.

     But if Franziska thought he'd let that go ... Phoenix couldn't smile wide enough, he ran touch down her curve of back and ached for more friction, and he asked:  
     "Do you mean it?"  
     Arms around his neck. His eyes drifted closed, the world all soft closeness now.  
     "You wonderful _fool_ ," she muttered against his mouth.

     Another rock of her weight; the space between them vanished but who needed air? Ease was plenty.


End file.
